


The Daraya Punkband AU!

by TheBitterHedgehog



Category: FriendSim - Fandom, Hiveswap
Genre: Band Fic, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Established Relationship, F/F, Gen, Mild Language, Revolution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29406468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBitterHedgehog/pseuds/TheBitterHedgehog
Summary: Inspired by articulatelyComposed's Daraya punkband AU Youtube covers as well as her spectacular story "The Progeny."Daraya convinces Chixie, Mallek, and Tyzias to start a punk band to help support the revolution.A sequel to my earlier fic, "Answers to the question of revolution", and set as a prequel to "The Progeny", though this can be read as a standalone fic.
Relationships: Daraya Jonjet & Bronya Ursama, Tyzias Entykk & Daraya Jonjet, Tyzias Entykk & Tagora Gorjek, Tyzias Entykk/Stelsa Sezyat
Kudos: 12





	1. A Dramatic Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Daraya Punk band AU Youtube covers](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/760389) by articulatelyComposed. 
  * Inspired by [The Progeny](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20411785) by [articulatelyComposed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/articulatelyComposed/pseuds/articulatelyComposed). 



_Creeping, crawling, clinging by the minutes drag along as you languish in your prison cell, waiting for your evening sustenance. Your rotting lungs bellow putrid air and your heart chokes one more beat, one more beat, to maintain your tiny life. Within the spiralling black loops and knots of your brain is a miniscule crevice that foolishly, uselessly, houses a dying hope, like a star slowly imploding, that your jailer carries a pardon from your eternal punishment, and saves you from your heinous Hell in both body and soul._

Your name is Daraya Jonjet, and you are bored to the point that you have gone to dramatic monologuing. To yourself. In your head. And now on paper, as you scribble the thoughts into your notebook.

In reality, it is late evening, and you are sitting at your desk with an open notebook and ragged pencil as you wait for Bronya to bring you your dinner. You have been hived for around two months now.

Could this fate have been avoided? Possibly. Unlikely, but possibly. But after returning home from your . . . excursion at the Chixie concert with Tyzias, you were in no shape physically or mentally to sneak back in. Whatever punishment you would get, you would begrudgingly take it. All you had wanted was your bed and an ice pack.

You had barely closed the front door behind you when Bronya swooped in on you. First she was furious, scolding you for skipping classes and being out without permission. Then she took notice of your bruised and scratched body, and quickly fell into mother-cluckbeast mode, cupping your elbow gently as she led you to her bathroom to treat your wounds, voice whisper-soft as she apologized for how the medicines made you hiss like a kettle. Once you were cleaned and bandaged up, she drilled you about your day. Where were you? What happened? Was anyone else hurt? But despite your fragile state, you still had enough of your wits about you to obfuscate the truth with casual rudeness. None of your business. Some drones blew up a store I was in. You know how these things go.

Frustrated, she had sent you straight to bed, saying you’ll talk more about it after you have slept. After sending a message to your friends that you made it home okay, you slept like the dead. The next night –– feeling physically better but mentally still like you got hit by a truck –– Bronya confronted you again, with the same litany of questions. Again you answered in the most frustratingly nonchalant way possible, rimmed with annoyance and acid, which made Bronya flush green with anger. She announced that you were hived for the foreseeable future, with all privileges (with the exception of work duties and classes) confiscated until, in her words, “you become a bit more reasonable.”

You almost laughed out loud in her face when she had said that. Since when have you ever been reasonable?

The worst part of the punishment, hands down, was the boredom. Bronya had taken your palmhusk, your husktop, even your trashy boyband magazines that you had stolen from your hivemates first as pranks, but then out of small genuine interest (not that you would ever admit that to any of them) and hadn’t had time to hide properly. All you had for entertainment was the notebooks you bought for aesthetics but never actually used from the bargain bins at Grubmart.

Until now. You hunch over with terrible posture, staring down at the page you just filled. You bite your lip as you pick apart the monologue, circling words and phrases you like and rewriting them on a different page in patterns you find pleasing.

_Creeping, crawling, clinging by_   
_your heart chokes one more beat_   
_Within the spiralling black loops and knots of your brain_   
_a star_   
_imploding_   
_saves you from your heinous Hell_   
_in both body and soul_

Even you can recognize that you are trying your hand at poetry and even, mother grub help you, song-writing.

Before the concert, you would have never thought you would write, let alone POETRY. But you found yourself longing for anything that can give you a semblance of structure, and poetry (at least to you) was all about structure. And more than that, you needed something to serve as an outlet for the slow, lava-like anger that bubbled in the pit of you.

Because that’s all you had to grip onto –– anger. Anger at the drones and trolls who had decided who was worth bothering to keep alive. At your violent, desentized culture, which was at best apathetic to the bloodlust and at worst celebratory of it. At the trolls who could, should, do something about it, but didn’t because of fear or pride or some other wall of excuses. At the people who had tipped the empress off about the Chixie concert and had sent the attack. At yourself and Mallek and Tyzias, for having made it out, but that Diemen had been left behind in that big pool of red. At yourself, for not being angry enough, for not being disturbed enough to be motivated to do more to help.

You clench your teeth together tight. You write faster, pressing so hard into the notebook you almost break your pencil. You will do more. You have to do more.

You are glaring at your notebook, debating on whether you should keep ‘Hell’ capitalized, despite it being of little to no consequence to the work itself and yet an extremely important decision at the same time, when the door opens. You immediately, and as discreetly as you can, close your notebook.

“You’ve ever heard of knocking?” you say as you twist around. The only part of you happy is your stomach as it perks up at the smell of food.

Bronya walks in with a bowl of grubghetti and grubballs. Normally, she would announce herself, announce the dish (as though you would not be able to tell what it was. Besides, it was Tuesday, for mother grub’s sake; Tuesday was always grubghetti night), and then quietly leave. She places the tray on top of your dresser and turns to face you. You shift your gaze from the bowl, mouth already starting to salivate a bit, to look at her as she stays.

“Good evening Daraya,” she says, ignoring your comment. She stands as she does before teaching a classroom lesson, posture poised and perfect, her hands interlocked in front of her above her stomach. “I hope I am not interrupting anything, but there were some things I wanted to discuss this evening.”

You snort. “Like you left me anything to do for you to interrupt.”

Bronya sighs and shakes her head. There is only one chair in the room so she continues to stand. She continues to talk to you from across the room, and you feel like you should be in your full Jade education uniform and taking notes.

“As you know Daraya, the cavern rules set up by myself and our hivemates dictate that a Jade blood can only be hived for a maximum of two and half months at a time, a limit which you will be reaching at the end of next sweep. At that time you will be given back your confiscated goods and be able to roam around the caverns as you please. Of course, leaving the caverns is still prohibited, with the exception of Jade approved field trips ––”

“God, what do you WANT Bronya?” you interrupt with a dramatically exasperated sigh. “Did you have anything actually useful to say, or did you come here to try and bore me to death before the end of the punishment with stuff literally everyone already knows?”

Bronya pauses for a moment. Her careful, neutral expression cracks for a moment, and there is a brief flash of hurt on her face.You feel a pang of guilt at this, but it quickly passes.

Bronya clears her throat. “Right,” She takes a moment to smooth her skirt. “What I wanted to say is, that while I know you will not tell me what happened that night you came to the hive so late, or about the events that you foolishly thought warranted putting yourself in danger, I wanted to let you know that I . . . I am here if you ever need to talk. About anything. I know these types of things can be hard to process, but that is what makes communication so crucial. I am responsible for all of your wellbeing, and it is part of my job to make sure that you ––”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Feel ‘supported’ and ‘part of the group’ and all that.” You roll your eyes. “Don’t worry, I won’t sport a hate boner for you or anything after this. You’re just doing your job, even if it sucks major ass. Are you finally finished yet? I would like to go back to my sulking in peace.”

Bronya takes a deep breath. You notice her hands squeeze tighter together. Then she reaches into her pocket and takes out your palmhusk, the little Lapras charm dangling, and places it on the dresser next to your dinner.

You . . . you’re speechless. You have never known Bronya to bend the rules. You stare at her, wide-eyed and mouth slightly agape, waiting for her to explain.

Bronya sighs again. “I know this seems out of character for me. But I am giving this to you early because:

1). As stated in the Jade rules, good behavior needs to be awarded in order to encourage discipline, obedience, and foster a sense of community. As your behavior during this period has been surprisingly exemplary, despite your frustratingly ridiculous refusal to share whatever the hell is going on with you, I believe you have earned this privilege back early.

2). It has grown increasingly difficult to keep the other Jades out of the Reprimand Cupboard to rifle through your belongings for black-mail material and I am tired of buying new locks to replace the ones they keep damaging. I am also growing increasingly worried at their skill at this, particularly Wanshi’s. I believe giving you the phone will improve this situation by removing some of the temptation.

3). Your health and mood will be improved by the opportunity to reach out to your colleagues, as well as allow you to catch you up on planetary news and news of the friends you have outside of the caverns.”

“I hope that this was all “useful” enough for you to warrant my lecture. Have a good rest of your night.” And then she leaves, closing the door behind her.

As soon as the door is closed, you bolt out of your chair and snatch your palmhusk, hugging it close to your chest, hunger momentarily forgotten. Yes. HELL YES. You have missed this thing so much, you feel your eyes start to water a little.

The moment is soured slightly when you feel another pang of guilt. Bronya annoys the living hell out of you. She was pretentious, and nosey, and more than a little bossy, and she followed the rules to a T always. Why the sudden softening, the whole ‘I’m here for you’ fluff?

You look at your palmhusk screen with its welcoming glow as you turn it on and grin again. You will have time to explore the complicated relationship dynamics you have with the oldest Jade in the caverns later. You start to type out Chittr handles. You have some friends to reach out to.

Your stomach makes a loud rumbling sound.

After dinner.


	2. A New Relationship

You are now Chixie Roixmr, and god you hate meeting with music bloggers.

“I’m telling you,” says the Indigo blogger, “this can be a huge opportunity for you. Think of the exposure, the money, and above all, the _prestige_. Ya know, let me tell you about the time I met––”

You are currently sitting at the bar/restaurant portion of a concert venue you often play at for petty cash. The Indigo had insisted on it. It’s primarily a Yellow and Green establishment and is nicer than lower color places you’ve performed at. The seats are clean and the tables are mostly not sticky, the red vinyl covering the bar stool seats and booths shined like lipstick in the good lighting, and the food and drink were halfway decent most of the time. The stage was in a separate room, the entrance a pair of heavy steel double doors that thick Olive bouncers opened and closed for ticket-bearers, but you could still hear the current band performing in a muted, physical way, like if you were wearing headphones that only mostly blocked out the noise, and felt the vibrations through the soft soles of your shoes. 

The Indigo who had invited you out tonight leans across the table in the booth seating he had selected toward you, making you instinctively lean back into your own seat, your back sinking further into the vinyl, almost catching the tips of your horns and tearing the fabric. 

“So, what do you say, my little Bronze medal?” he says at what you assume is the end of his speech. At the beginning you had been paying rapt attention, but the more he talked the more he made it clear that what was supposed to be an interview was actually a sales pitch, and your concentration began to turn from interest to unease as he peppered his speech with pet names and thinly veiled derogatory language. “Ready to make the best decision of your career?”

You clear your throat and force yourself to sit up straight in your seat. “I really appreciate the offer Mr. Codakk ––”

“Zebruh, please. Mr. Codakk is my lusus. Though you,” here he winks, and you feel your skin crawl, as though a bug scurried up your arm, “you can call me stud.” 

“Is that . . . a common nickname for you?“

Zebruh winks again, and they are going to have to defume the place later because you swear you feel something crawl up you again. “Only for you. Though don’t tell anyone; can’t let word get out that I have a soft spot for just any Bronze-y.” 

“ . . . I would prefer to call you Zebruh, if that’s alright. For, uh, professional reasons.” 

Zebruh leans back in his chair, but is still smiling that lazy, slippery smile he had walked in with when he arrived over an hour and fifteen minutes late for your appointed meeting time. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, sweetheart.” 

“Zebruh, your offer is . . . very generous. But I’m focusing on expanding my career at the moment. Looking to, uh, spread my influence, as it were. Though the offer is . . . greatly appreciated,” you say, choosing your words very carefully. You’re not lying; you’re being diplomatic. “I’m afraid that I can’t accept the position of being your personal in-home musician and composer at this time.”

For a moment, he drops, and it’s so quick that you almost think you imagined it. But you are a petite Bronze blood, and you would still not be alive if you ever thought ‘you just imagined it.’ The easy smile and soft eyes slide off as his lips twist into a snarl and his eyes are daggers, his whole expression taking on such an immediate furiousness you instinctively reach down into your bag and clutch your pepper spray, a cold, primal fear dripping into your adrenaline as you feel nervous energy buzz through you. 

But the moment, quick as lightning, passes, and his face softens, and he smiles that lazy smile again and looks at you attentively, like he hadn’t just flipped like a switch, like he could never dream of hurting you.

You still clutch the pepper spray. 

“Of course sweetheart. I didn’t want you that bad anyway. I was just pumping you up a bit, since you are, ya know, kind of a nobody, but maybe I put it on a little too thick.” 

You’re still too shaken to find your voice, so you just nod, swallowing down the rising unease. The band performing is reaching the climax in their show and the music leaking in from the other room is louder now, more harsh. You can almost feel the reverberations through your seat and leak into your bones.

Zebruh sighs with a lightness that you think sounds forced, and pushes his chair back as he stands up. “You’ll probably fail, since it is such a tough industry, and your work is at best Bronze gutter trash, but my offer still stands.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out a card. He slides it across the table to you. “Here’s my number and Chitter handle. Let me know when you realize that I’m the best chance a Bronze like you will ever have at making it big and actually contributing something meaningful in this industry, okay sweetheart?”

He winks at you again, then straightens his bowtie and waltzes out the building. 

As soon as you are sure he is gone, you unclutch the spray and you press the heels of your hands into your eyes. You breathe slowly, trying to calm your rabbiting heartbeat. Your mind is a hive of activity; it takes some time for you to calm down. 

You have just got your breathing back under control when a Rustblood waiter comes by and takes the empty glasses off your table, inquiring if you would like to order anything else. You automatically say no and ask for the bill. The idea of eating or drinking anything at the moment makes your stomach churn uncomfortably. You just want to go home now, maybe chug some Faygo you smuggled from your last high-blood concert, and go to sleep. 

He hands you the check and your eyes widen. Zebruh had left without paying his bill. And HOW many of the most expensive drinks on the menu did he order? 

A cloud of anger rises in you and settles in your chest as you begrudgingly take out your wallet, cursing out Zebruh and bloggers and Grub juice martinis under your breath as you hand the waiter the last wad of credits you have. 

The waiter counts your money. “You’re short twelve credits.”

You feel your cheeks heat up, the cloud condensing into a stone that drops to your guts. “No, there should be some twenties in there ––”

“Nope,” he says, and fans the credits out to show you. 

You blush harder and pour your bag out onto the table. There are only your keys, squished tissues, leaky pens and pen caps, a small shiny bag of half-empty cosmetics, a notebook half full of ideas for songs and semi-formed lines of lyrics, grub bar wrappers, and gift cards to the scalding leaf water place that went out of business two years ago. “Ummmm . . .”

The waiter sighs, exasperated, and makes a hand signal to another waiter. He watches you and rolls up his sleeves, revelling his robust muscles, obviously making a show that you should not try to dine and dash. You shift uncomfortably in your seat and swallow thickly, your throat suddenly feeling very very tight.

A tall, beefy Olive Blood comes out who you recognize as the manager of the place. You two have always been cordial, but you have never owed him money before, and you have seen what he does to trolls who disrespect his establishment.

“I’m so sorry, Ullvio,” you start as soon as he arrives at the table. “Money’s been a bit tight for me lately. I can do some dishes for you to make up for it? Or maybe bus some tables? I can also ––”

Ullvio raises his hand. “It’s alright, Chixie,” he says. His voice is deep and rich, it makes you think of cream and chocolate. If you were just a little less anxious and awkward and not in a position where you couldn’t pay your bill you might even have one day asked if he would sing background vocals for a song for you. “I know you and I know you’re good for it. Let’s just take it out of your next paycheck from this weekend’s concert and call it even, okay?”

You look at his giant hand, big enough to encase your entire skull, and nod and graciously blubber “thank you’s” and “so sorry’s” and “will never happen again’s”as he says goodbye and leaves with the waiter. 

Once they leave the room you are hit with a wave of relief. You lucked out. You’re not going to get thrown to the drones or beat up or forced to do dishes for the rest of the night, which is fantastic. But this is going to set you back on rent. And groceries. And you’ll need to make the strings on your guitar last a little longer, even though you promised yourself you would replace them two weeks ago. You’ll need to pick up some extra gigs this weekend to make up for the lost income. 

You take out your palmhusk and look up your notifications, see if anyone posted any new gigs you could scoop up and slip in between your other plans. You’re busy, you’re always busy, you can’t be in this industry without being busy, but you’ve gone a night or two without sleep before to make ends meet. 

You’re surprised to see that someone has been direct messaging you. 

jadedObstetriatic has sent a Chitter request to singingMasquerade through the ‘Furnace’ private channel. Accept or Decline?

A friend request through the secure rebellion server? Those haven’t been happening too frequently. You have never heard of this handle before. You look up their Chittr profile and look at who their friends are. You’re surprised to see that Mallek’s one of their Chittr friends. Mallek is very picky who he chooses to befriend on the internet (it had taken you two months to finally get a request from him), so someone vetted by Mallek had to probably be okay.

So you accept the request.

They immediately message you.

jadedObstetriatic has messaged singingMasquerade

jO: Hi there! I’m Daraya Jonjet. I’m a big fan of your Masked Chixie and wanted to know when I can see you again. 

jO: Also Mallek gave me your private Chitter handle. Which I hope is okay? And I hope also makes me seem less stalker-y. 

jO: Cause I can not emphasize enough that I am not a stalker. 

jO: I’m just a fan. A really big fan. A really super big fan.

jO: Okay, I just reread that last text and realized that that is exactly what a stalker would say. 

jO: I’m sorry, I’m rambling. You are probably super busy being, you know, you. I can disappear forever if that makes this conversation any better? 

sM: No, that’s okay! It’s good to be messaged by a fan! 

sM: Plus I’ve had creepier.

Oh god have you had creepier. 

jO: Oh thank god I was so scared I just screwed everything up and you were going to hate me forever. 

sM: I admit that you came on a little strong, and if you were coming through a public server I would have blocked you almost immediately, but if you’re in the ‘Furnace’ chat channel then you can’t be that bad.

Also, you like to think that Mallek wouldn’t friend anyone too crazy and grant them access to the chat. There was enough sensitive information about rebel trolls in there to get them culled in less than a week. 

sM: Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m going to be live as Masked Chixie for a while. After how my last concert got ended by drones, I still don’t feel that safe performing in that role at this time. 

jO: Makes sense. I was at the last one concert. The one by the river? You were fantastic.

sM: Thank you! I appreciate the support. 

jO: Of course. You’re so talented. Which now awkwardly segways me to my incredibly weird out-of-nowhere proposition for you. 

jO: Please feel free to say no, because I know that you are super busy even if you are not being Masked Chixie. And I know you don’t know me at all, but I would super appreciate it if you considered this seriously.

_Please don’t be another proposal to join a quadrant or go on a date_ , you think. You received five of those last perigee from complete strangers who claimed to be fans and you are not in the mood to write out a polite but firm rejection text, and then suffer through a brief but traumatizing period of stalking and social media badmouthing.

jO: Can you start a band with me? 

This was . . . unusual. Most trolls wanted you to play for them, not with them. You frown, unsure of what to make of the question. Your thumb hovers over the block button, but then your curiosity gets the better of you and you keep typing. 

sM: . . . . why?

jO: Because I want to support the rebellion, and I want to do it with music, and you know what you’re doing when it comes to music. If anyone knows how to start a band, and be successful with that band, it’s you. 

sM: I appreciate the sentiment and your confidence in me, but I’m afraid that I’m inclined to decline your offer. I really need to focus on my solo career at the moment as just Chixie and don’t have the availability at this time to be part of another music group. 

SM: And to be honest, I’m not thrilled with the idea of starting a band with a complete stranger who I literally met less than five minutes ago and started the conversation out claiming how they were totally not a stalker. 

jO: Okay, if I were you, I would probably feel the same, but hear me out. Here are some links to some my social media page to show I’m not fooling you right now:

[jO sent over several links to sM]

sM: . . . . These are just profile pages full of images of who I assume is you in heavy eyeliner giving the finger to the camera in various locations? And a few with you and a stuffed Lapras? As well as short blog posts about boy bands, knives, and choker necklaces? 

sM: How does this all make you trustworthy? That you’re good on your word and not some secret Purple Blood plotting to kidnap me and use my blood for clown paint or some other horrible unimaginable fate and are using an overly complicated nuanced scheme to do so?

jO: Would a troll with a cute stuffed Lapras lie to you? 

sM: . . . . That is so true it is a very cute stuffed Lapras. 

You know what? Screw it. It’s not like you ever planned on living long anyway. If you’re going to die soon, it might as well be with doing something badass like starting a band. And who knows? IT could also be another source of revenue, a flow of cash that you desperately need. 

You are reminded of how light your wallet currently is in your pocket, and that makes you keep typing. 

sM: Okay then, Daraya. I’ve made up my mind. I’ll take a chance on you. I’ll start a band.

jO: OH MY GOD REALLY?!?!

jO: Thank you so much really you won’t regret it I promise!

sM: But I’M in charge and get final say on things, okay? I keep the rights to all my music, we split the profits equally among the members (regardless of blood color), and if I catch wind of any sort of plagiarism or we do anything I don’t approve beforehand, I will quit. 

jO: Deal. Anything you want or need. 

sM: Great! We are in agreement then. 

sM: Now tell me what you know about music. Any formal training?

jO: Surprisingly yes. We get taught all kinds of weird things down in the caverns. Everything from basic medical training to candlemaking. 

sM: Candlemaking? 

jO: It’s weird and has never been useful for anything. It’s kind of fun to do though. Weirdly calming.

jO: Music class is a thing though. Supposedly it soothes the grubs, I dunno. I was taught basics on some things but I’m pretty decent at singing and piano. I also know how to read music and grub-level composing and do a little song-writing on the side.

jO: Actually I have a lot of songs written at the moment, thanks to an incredibly crappy hiving where it was either write stuff down or die by sheer boredom. If any of them are not complete garbage they might be useful for starting out? If you don’t have anything else prepared, I mean. Like I said, it’s your show. 

sM: Okay, I can work with that. I’ll need to hear you perform and read your material before we make any decisions about who does what and what we play but it’s better than what I was expecting. 

sM: I’m good for guitar and vocals. Do you have anyone else lined up yet? 

jO: I’m still reaching out to two more people for drums and bass but should have everyone on board by the end of the week.

sM: I will need to approve them before I allow them to join. If I cannot trust them or think their playing is not up to standard I want the ability to replace them. 

sM: The same goes for you Daraya. If I don’t think you’re good enough I may ask to disband, despite me agreeing now.

jO: Of course.

sM: And if we disband, I want a guarantee that there will be no retribution. No harm, no violence, no social media slandering. I want this all to be friendly. No hard feelings. If you don’t think you or your friends can do that, then we should quit while we are ahead. 

jO: I swear on Mother Grub that no matter what happens, we will be cool. I promise.

sM: Wonderful. I apologize for getting on my high hoof-beast here –– I am just making sure that there is no room for confusion on anything. It’s not everyday that a higher blood tells me that I get to be in control of something. 

At least not without strings attached. Not without there being some hidden rule, some unknown variable, something you had not thought of that they can use to take advantage of you when making the original agreement, when the prospects and hopes were high, there were only thoughts of what you would all gain, and not gain and lose. Or they just flat-out go against their word. But you would like to think for the moment that Daraya wouldn’t do that. 

sM: We should also meet up soon to discuss logistics and for me to hear you and the others play. How does the Thursday after next week sound? We can meet in my garage.

jO: Sounds perfect. I will be there, and I will be sure to pass the message along to the others.

jO: And thank you again for agreeing to do this. You have no idea how much this means to me. 

jadedObstetriatic has ceased messaging singingMasquerade

You stare at your phone, heartbeat picking up again. You feel the familiar anxious energy again, but this time it’s better. There’s a happiness to it, one that makes you feel light instead of heavy. 

You look up and see where Zebruh had left his card on the table. It’s indigo blue with white stamped letters. It is lamented and shines like a jewel. You pick it up and for a moment appreciate the smoothness of it, how the pads of your touch stubs rise and fall out of the grooves of the stamped letters, almost velvet smooth, before you shred the card to pieces. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and constructive comments!


End file.
